by Sarah Fine
My hand slams down on the desk, rattling all the mirrors, making them tremble and jitter and clank. If Guiren hadn’t read me that stupid story of the bandit, I wouldn’t be thinking this way at all. This is his fault because now I can’t stop. And I need to finish my project and head up to the roof to see the fireworks.
I never miss the fireworks.
I glance toward the metal rack on the wall, the one that holds my cloak and glove.
I look away. I belong here. This is my kingdom. My world.
I look back. It would be interesting to see how the Ring has changed in the past few years. That’s why I’m so restless. Maybe it’s time. I’m strong enough. And I’m curious. I tighten the gear at my elbow and my mechanical hand springs to life again. I can leave anytime I want. I can see things I want to see.
This basement is my kingdom, not my prison.
My metal fingers close over the cloak and tug it from the rack. I will decide the size of my world. And right now, it is not nearly large enough.
Chapter Two
I TAKE THE ELEVATOR TO the roof and exit through Gochan Two because it is always quiet and deserted at night, unlike Gochan One during the feasting season. Tomorrow, the killing floor will close at noon, but tonight, on First Holiday Eve, the unlucky middle shifters must toil away unless they want to go without their daily wage. Some of them decide it’s worth it, mostly the young ones from middle-class families. But the older ones, the poorer ones, the ones who have mouths to feed, can’t afford even one shift off. Especially because they understand something few of the young and wealthier do: In an instant, a strong man can be turned into a cripple. The factory does not promise anyone a tomorrow.
I understand this better than any of them. I am one of the cautionary tales whispered to newcomers. One of the lurid horror stories. My blood stains the killing floor beneath the spinners. My ghost haunts the factory.
Before I descend the stairs in Gochan Two, I take a minute to stare through the glass opening in the floor. I made this window for myself a year ago, because I like to come here and watch the creation of the war machines. So beautiful and strong, the way they move. Nothing can stop them. If a man is in their way, they don’t care. They will crush him. And when they do, they will feel nothing. No guilt or grief. No triumph or savage pleasure. They will destroy him because he was in the wrong place, because he got between them and their destination. It is that simple.
I like that. It is easy and pure.
Even at rest, there is potential in those heavy metal limbs, in those gears and joints and circuits. A sort of promise. Someday I would like to control something that big. But for now I will settle for controlling many small things. I get better at it every day. Lately I’ve been getting restless, though, and I think I will try something new. Something a bit larger than a spider. Something that walks on two legs and grasps with two hands. I bet I could do it. But that is for another time, because the sun has set, and I want to be out there.
As soon as I push open the metal side door, I pick up the scent of meat buns and incense and cheap alcohol and rotting fruit. The smells of celebration in the Ring. Faint music from horns and flutes and drums reaches me. And the lights, oh, the lights. From the roof, where I usually watch, they are distant and glowing. But from here, as I slip through a loose panel in the perimeter fence and reach the street, it is almost overwhelming. Torches and lamps and colored flames, stark patches of brightness over the dimness on the street.
I like the dark, so I pull my hood low. I walk slowly, taking it in, turning the fragile, broken part of my face to the inside of my hood as a matter of habit. My mechanical arm holds the flowing cloak—an offering from one of the factory bosses last year—closed. The glove over my steel and wire hand could fool anyone into believing I am normal and made entirely of muscle and bone.
The wet streets reflect the lamps’ shimmering flames and the colorful dress of the people crowding toward the central square of the Ring, where the parade will begin shortly. The skin on my arm prickles with goose bumps, and on my face there is a tickle of mist, just a few tiny drops, but it is enough to shock me. All of a sudden I am a little boy again, my skinny arms pumping as my rag-wrapped feet slap the slippery cobblestones, sprinting away from the woman in fox-fur whose purse I had just snatched. The memory steals my breath and makes my heart race.
Up ahead there is an outside tap set up with men gathered around it, swilling ale and plum wine, growing red-faced and loud. I stick out my right hand and offer a coin to the tapmaster.
“Pint,” I say as if I were a man, and then I realize that’s exactly what I am now. The tapmaster glances up at my shadowed face and grunts, then hands me a cup made of thick, greased paper, stiff and sturdy, heavy with ale. I toss him the coin, then step out of the line. I want the shadows. The ones that are deep and dark, where I can find shelter. I stand against the rough brick wall and watch, sipping the cool amber drink that slides into my mouth and bites my tongue. The workers leave me ale sometimes, strong beer, plum wine. I never drink much, but it helps me sleep and calms the nightmares, the ones that like to sneak up and ambush me, the memories I like to bury and stomp on.
Somehow, this ale tastes different. It leaves a honey-bitter aftertaste that I like. A wild kind of taste. The taste of celebration and possibility. Before I know it, half is gone and I’m already wondering if I should have another.
The crowd around me grows thicker, so much so that people are brushing against me as they try to pass the tangle of men lined up for the tap. No one notices me; I am only one of many people huddled beneath cloaks, enjoying the festivities while trying to keep the chill away. But really, there are so many humans here that it is not cold at all. In fact, I’m sweating now. I wish I could shed this heavy material and walk free, but somehow I think others might be unnerved if they saw my arm, if they saw what it could do. So I lean against the wall and watch. A man next to me sets off a string of firecrackers, and the sharp blasts make the women around us scream.
One lady leans against me and wraps her fingers around my upper arm, holding on tight.
My breath rushes out as a thousand sensations roll over me: the pressure of her fingers on my skin; the scent of her perfume, lilies and orchids; and her breath, plum wine and something else, something sweeter. Her face is painted: bright cherry cheeks and lips, and black charcoal around her eyes. She blinks up at me and smiles lazily.
“You’re a handsome one,” she says, and reaches up to touch my right cheek. I do not think she would feel the same if she was standing on my left side.
I catch her wrist with my mechanical hand before the thought to stop her enters my head. “Thank you,” I say. I do not wish to be rude.
But I do not like to be reminded of my mother.
The whore’s eyes widen and that is when I realize I’m hurting her. I release her wrist and bow my head.
“Shy?” she asks, rubbing her wrist, throwing cautious glances at the gloved hand that has now withdrawn beneath the folds of my cloak. I need to be more careful. If there had been more tension in the gears, I could have crushed her bones to splinters.
“You could say that,” I mumble, edging away from her.
She doesn’t take the hint and follows after me. “First time, maybe? I’d make it good.”
I grimace. I cannot think of anything worse. At least, my mind knows this. My body seems to have other ideas, and I realize I need to get away from this woman. I picked a poor watching place—I’m right next to a salon, and tonight it’s not trying to hide its true purpose. The girls are mixing with the crowd, escorting men straight from the tap to their chambers. She must have thought I was waiting my turn.
“Not tonight,” I say, and pivot on my heel, looking for my escape. She cries out as she bounces off my steel shoulder, and my metal fist clenches with the assault. I shove my way through the crowd, gulping the damp night air and need
ing space that is mine and only mine. I usually have as much as I need, but now I have to share it and the closeness is too much, way too much. I slip into the first alley I find just to get away from the press of bodies, the heavy, warm scent of sweat and perfume and piss and meat and ale. It’s making me dizzy and filling me with the need to run away as fast as I can, but that is no good. This is my world. Mine. I can be here. I have a right to it like everybody else.
“Slow down, Wen!” someone with a high voice calls, bringing every cell in my body to attention. I creep to the mouth of the alley. I’m close to the square now where Guiren said he was planning to have dinner with his wife and daughter. But Wen is a common name, so maybe—
“Wen, come here!” The voice belongs to a pleasantly plump girl wearing a bright blue dress. She shrieks as a boy next to her sets off another string of firecrackers and drops them at her slippered feet.
“Vie! Are you all right?”
Another girl steps away from a flower vendor and lifts her skirts to run toward her squealing friend.
The moment I see her, I know who she is.
For so many reasons, I am certain this is Guiren’s daughter. Her dress . . . shimmering amber material embroidered with glittering ruby and sapphire thread along the sleeves. She looks like a walking treasure box. She is wearing a wealthy girl’s dress, but she can’t fool me because I notice everything. Her shoes are plain slippers like those of a factory girl. Just the kind of thing the daughter of a seamstress might wear. And her face . . . it is heart-shaped instead of narrow, but her eyes tell me the truth. The look I see there is all Guiren: stern, serious, but soft somehow, like she has gathered all the worries in the world and is carrying them in her arms, but can somehow do so without dropping a single one. She is a skinny girl, not much of a figure, and wouldn’t even come up to my shoulder, but she strides up to the firecracker boy and stands before him with her hands on her hips.
“You could have blown her toes off,” she says to the boy, who must be at least my age and looks shocked that such a young girl would tell him off like that. “Be more careful, or I’ll report you to the authorities.”
He looks her up and down but can’t seem to think of a coherent response, either because he’s too drunk or because she doesn’t seem to care what he has to say anyway. She’s already tucked her arm beneath Vie’s and is patting the other girl’s shoulder as she leads her down the street.
And I follow like there’s a string around my chest, pulling me along. I keep my head down, watching the bottom of her dress swish around her ankles. The back is speckled with mud from the road, but the rest of her glows beneath the torches like a beacon. Not just her dress. Her hair, two braids twisted into knots at the base of her neck, shines like onyx. I am so riveted by her that I nearly trip over a blind beggar at the curb. I toss him one of my coins to make up for the fact that I’ve overturned his ale. But when I look up, Wen is gone, and I bound into the mob, causing people to stumble back as they collide with my mechanical half.
I find Wen in the crowd around the fire-eaters, in a small park off the main thoroughfare. I seek out the deep shade of a willow right next to the road. This is the perfect spot because I can see her face and watch her expressions. I study her like I study everything, wondering how she works, what moves her, what stills her, what makes her the princess of Guiren’s heart.
She stares at the fire-eaters with such a somber, curious expression, so different from the people around her. Vie uses every other breath to let out a shriek. Her hands move constantly, clapping or covering her mouth or patting her hair. Her eyes dart restlessly from the entertainment to an older boy standing next to her. She seems like she is never content, always wanting more. Wen is different. Her dark eyes gaze without blinking at the flame of a fire-eater. From her expression, the utter stillness of her, I can tell she is wondering how he does it, whether the flames burn his throat. She bites her lip each time the torch disappears into his mouth. Her hands ball into her skirt as she watches his face for signs of pain. But she doesn’t squeal or flinch. She simply wants to see what will happen.
Vie gets bored quickly and tugs on Wen’s sleeve. I follow them at a respectful distance, not wanting to make them nervous. Not that I could—the crowd is thick and we are all flowing toward the square where the parade will begin. In fact, the people are crushed so close together that I almost end up stomping on Wen’s skirts. I halt and have to brace myself as others bump into my back.
She’s stopped right in the middle of the street and people are stepping around her, swerving at the last minute to keep from stumbling over her like I almost did. She’s kneeling next to a sobbing child, a little boy with a badly scraped-up knee. His feet are wrapped in rags and his clothes are filthy and too scant to be comfortable in this cold weather. Wen’s slender fingers are clamped around his scrawny leg, holding him still as she asks him where his parents are. Vie stands next to her, looking annoyed and embarrassed as citizen after citizen brushes past and steals glances at the tiny beggar boy and the treasure-box girl who are taking up too much space in the road.
I scoot to the side and end up by a vendor’s cart. She is selling hot bread stuffed with salted fish or nut paste or black olives, and the smells are intoxicating. I hover near the warm steam cloud, hiding in the thick mist of it while Wen picks the boy up in her arms and carries him to the curb. Vie looks like she wants to sink through the ground and hide. She taps Wen on the shoulder. “We have to go,” she says.
“In a minute.” Wen’s gaze is on the boy’s knee as she pokes carefully at the flesh around the wound. “Excuse me, could you spare a bit of that ale?” she asks a man sitting on a bench nearby.
He grunts and looks down at his cup. “Here.”
She accepts with a smile and thanks him, then pours the ale over the boy’s knee. He whines and slaps at her hand, but she ignores him. “It will kill the filth from the street,” she says.
“Need a clean rag?” the vendor woman offers. She doesn’t look like the compassionate type, but she sees Wen’s fancy dress and is maybe hoping for a reward from the tenderhearted, rich girl who is tending to the beggar boy’s wounds.
Wen grins gratefully and takes the rag. She has read the woman’s eager look too. She reaches into the deep pockets of her dress and hands the woman a coin, and Vie’s eyes open up wide. “That’s your money for sweets,” she hisses in Wen’s ear.
“I already ate dinner. I’m not hungry anymore.” Wen shrugs her off and bandages the boy’s knee. “Will you be okay now?” she asks him. From her tone and the way she hovers, I can tell she doesn’t want to leave him, even though her friend is practically yanking on her sleeve.
The boy nods. He’s probably never been treated so gently in all his life. I would know. Gentleness is rare on the streets, and when it comes, it is as shocking as being plunged into an ice bath. He jumps to his feet and scrambles away, probably short-circuited by the foreign softness in her hands and voice, confused by wishes and wants he doesn’t understand, overwhelmed by the need to bury his head in her arms and let her shield him, knowing he needs to harden up or he won’t live out the night, let alone the year.
Or maybe that’s all me.
Because as I watch Vie fuss over a blood stain on Wen’s sleeve, as I see Wen brush it off with no distress, I can’t take my eye off Guiren’s daughter. She is so like him. She doesn’t shrink away from torn flesh or dirt. She doesn’t hesitate to spend her money to ease the suffering of someone else. She doesn’t look away and pretend she doesn’t see.
All of me is coiled tight, and my eye is burning, but not from the smoke. This girl, this treasure-box, jewel-bright girl, I need to know her. I have to. That bandit, the foolish one who exchanged his freedom for a kiss . . . understanding of his plight hits me with the force of a war machine, right in the chest. Guiren’s words about how the wily bandit wanted something more elusive and precious than a string of gem
s—that makes perfect sense. Now I want it too.
“Ai!” yelps the vendor woman. My head snaps to the side, and I see her staring down at my left hand with an expression of absolute horror. Probably because my fingers are clutching the edge of her cast-iron griddle and tendrils of smoke are twisting up from my burning glove. I yank my hand away and pat the smoldering material against my pants as the woman stares at me, probably wondering why I’m not screaming.
“My apologies,” I mutter, sinking back into the crowd. Wen is wandering away again, surrounded by revelers, and I have to see what she does next. The last four years of solitude are crushing me in their fist, grinding me up. I thought it was what I wanted, I thought I was perfectly happy by myself, and now . . . now I can’t stand the thought of another minute in my own head.
I want to be in hers.
A few blocks away, the giant dragon rises above the square, its wide mouth opening and closing as its catlike eyes glare into the night, daring any malevolent creature to challenge it. The massive head rises and falls on its pole, controlled from the ground by pedals and pulleys. That is where the parade will start, where the strong men and acrobats and dancing girls and trained panthers will head the procession. The temple guardians will bring up the rear, and the incense-waving citizens will march between, driving away the evil spirits from the north. Very soon it will begin, and Vie is already handing Wen a stick of incense and chattering at her about getting a good place in the procession.
I think I’ll join the procession too. I accept a stick of incense from a temple guardian, pull my hood a little lower, and drift with the slow-moving crowd.
A man presses in close to my left shoulder, grabbing incense from the stooped, elderly guardian and shoving forward until he is ahead of me and right behind Wen. I flinch away automatically, my metal fingers clicking within the charred fabric of the glove, chiming alarms going off in my head. Not because he is rude or because I am not used to being touched, though both are true. No, I have just seen his eyes, glittering beneath the hood of his cloak. Only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Unlike everyone else, this man is not looking at the dragon’s head or the acrobats. He is not trying to get a good spot in the procession. He wants something else entirely.